Chair rocket from 1000 CUTS by INFECTED SENSES

Max had been building rockets in his mind since he was six, but now, at thirty-four, he sat on an old wooden chair, staring into the black nothingness of his apartment. The rockets never worked—his ideas always sputtered out like dying fireworks. The bottles of soda he’d once used to fuel his dreams were now filled with something else, something that numbed. The cardboard wings he taped to the chair made him laugh, a bitter sound in the dead air. His rocket wasn’t taking him anywhere. The real journey was inward, a slow descent into the space between hopelessness and apathy.

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